The Scented Garden

27 words in pretence of conversation ; thine eyes hard shut lest thou shouldst see thy lover move and perhaps (oh, worst of woes !), frighten him from thee ; fearful, oh ! infinitely fearful lest he should not love thee after all, soft words (oh, the burning cheeks, the bitten lips !) whose hidden fire shall kindle the great blaze ? How talk with thee, whose quickened hearing has not known him creep ever closer, yet afraid to touch thee, has not heard the rushing of his heart, the shortening of his breath ? How talk, if thou have not felt one trem- bling foot seed thine, one hand steal near thee and yet nearer ? Till thou feel the tremor of his body ; till his hot breath stir thine hair ! Why, neither thou nor I can tell of that swift attack (is it a minute or an hour ?) when without word spoken the bonds of convention snap — hast thou seen a village, with its smug Swiss thieves, whelmed by the avalanche, the avalanche of elemental force, the avalanche of God ? Nay, I remember noth- ing ; I know I found myself naked in his naked arms, his giant member still throbbing and beating in my flooded bowels, and the world was aswim before mine eyes. I tell thee, man, that the first kiss of man to man is more than the most elaborately manipulated or- gasm that the most accomplished and most pas- sionate courtesan can devise. That is, it is not a physical,9 but a spiritual pleasure. I tell thee, as I walk the sunsmitten streets of Mandalay, where lives a boy I love, that the very foundation of the soul tremble as mine eyes fall upon him. I have never spoken to him ; I doubt if I could command myself to speak to him. Have I faced death in a hundred forms, and never winced, to fear (at last)10 the frown of a Nubian slave ? Strange, friend monometallist ! But true !